Extremity
by za
Summary: You hate yourself for loving him.


Title: Extremity

Author: mao 

Disclaimer: Velvet Goldmine belongs to Michael Stipe, Todd Haynes, and a lot of other people, most notably not me. I'm just a poor college student not trying to make any money from this, and if you sue me, all you'll get is some soda bottles. 

Author's Notes: See if you can figure out who this is about. It's central to the story.

Warnings: Mentions of sexuality, drug use, language.

***

He's extreme. His hips are carved alabaster, his shoulders jutting porcelain. His hair, red as a sunset, shimmering in the lights from the neon sign across the street. His eyes, the way they bore into you as you try not to look at him. His quick, flickering movements as he dries himself after his shower, shaking his head and sending droplets of water flying across the room. One of them hits you and you glance away from watching him in the mirror, looking down at the plush carpeting on the floor. In the silver of the mirror, his eyes have lost their liquidity and seem hard as stone in the mirror. 

You hate yourself for it. For the condom, used and rolled down and stuffed under some papers in the trash. For the fame, the groupies, the drugs, the sex you can't turn down. It's so much; so extreme. You've always loved to be extreme.

You hate yourself for the way your skin becomes flushed, heated as he meets your eyes in the mirror. The way you look away quickly, not wanting to see the way he looks at you with contempt, as if you were just another starry-eyed groupie, enjoying a sick shag with their glamorous idol, fallen from a glittering heaven. The way you can't find a place to put your eyes, as if this wasn't your hotel room but his. But you know it as well as he does - everything is his when he's around.

You hate yourself for the way you tighten the band around your arm and inject the liquid, slipping the needle easily beneath the skin and into the vein, gently, slowly pushing down the plunger and releasing the only solace you have. And then, you hate yourself for the way you cut yourself a line of coke, take the straw, and snort it up easily, like medicine. 

You hate the way you meet his eyes again in the mirror as he does up his tight pants. For the way he glares at you, and you turn your eyes, avert them from him to yourself - to the dyed blonde hair, the heavy eyeliner, the smudged makeup. You hate the way you look. You hate the way you allow yourself to be used.

He pulls his shirt on and you look at him, slowly taking in the shape of the body that ten minutes earlier was screaming your name, if not from its mouth, from every pore, screaming, howling, moaning in ecstasy he wouldn't admit. You know if you ask him, he still won't admit it, and you hate yourself for that. He leans over you to fix his hair, focused only on himself in the mirror, not seeing you as you try not to watch him, try not to watch yourself, try not to touch him, try not to lift your nose to catch his delicate scent. You smell it anyway, without moving your head - his own signature, personal smell - like lillies, hyacinth, vanilla, and cinnamon rolled together. 

You turn away, but you can see the grin come across his face, that extreme smile of rage. Of how much he hates you. How he uses you for his own sick pleasure, his own perverted manner of keeping you. It might be over, if not for the occasional fuck. Even with everything else, you might leave him if not for the sex. But he still comes to you sometimes. 

Sometimes, he's weeping, telling you he's sorry and he can't live without you. That he loves you and he wants you and only you and he'll give up all the others if he can just keep you. Then he makes love to you, sweetly, holding you like a doll. Sometimes, he's angry and his face is contorted and red with rage. He hits you, hard backhands against the cheek, punches on the back and arms and kicks elsewhere. Then he fucks you up the ass, hard, screaming at you. In the morning, you feel ripped and hurt but still deeply satisfied on another level. Sometimes, he's drunk and cheerful like he used to be, and he takes you in an alley, kissing your neck and whispering sweet nothings in your ears, things he forgets by the next day but you will remember for weeks, months to come. 

When he comes to you, he's always an extreme. A few times, he's been so skagged out he can't get it up, and you tuck him in and sleep with your arms wrapped around him, pretending everything's still ok. 

When he came tonight, it was in contempt. You'd told him earlier you were leaving, and he'd told you to go to your room and wait. 

"Fifteen minutes," you'd said, and he'd smirked.

When he came to you, he took you hard and fast and you climaxed several times and were left breathless, lying against the pillows, drained, like a girl who's no longer a virgin. You lay there, your makeup smudged by sweat and running down your face, your brain swirling in delirious ecstasy, as he headed off to shower. You smoked a cigarette, lying back, confused and uncertain. You want to talk to him, but he never talks anymore. He barely looks at you, and you hate that too.

You hate how when he came back, you bit your lip and didn't say a word as he began dressing, just sat back to watch and avert your eyes. He hasn't said a single word to you since the fifteen minute warning. Just the same, he knows you won't be leaving, and you hate yourself for that, too. For the spineless, gutless way you wait between shags, wait for him to come to you, to treat you well, to remind you of why you love him. To reasses you, like he might toss you out if you aren't good enough. 

You've wondered why he keeps you around like this. You know he must know that you can't seem to leave - and he must know why. But he still doesn't ever let on what his reasons are. He doesn't even speak to you most of the time. Doesn't treat you like a human being, but like a toy. And yet you stay. And yet he always knows when to come to keep you there. 

Sometimes, you suspect that he doesn't know why he keeps you there. You're a good lay, you know, but there used to be more there than that. You remember the way he loved you once, would have done anything for you. And now there's nothing but wondering and hate. 

Most of all though, you hate that he won't be coming back tonight. He might not come back tomorrow, either, or the next night. He might come back sometime, or he might not. You never know. You're never certain who he's with when he's not with you, only that you agreed to be open. You don't ask, because part of you is afraid of the answer. 

You hate yourself for always letting him come back in.

He's at the door and you meet his eyes in the mirror. "Be ready for the press conference," is all he says. You nod, then speak, your tongue running away with you, your brain screaming at you to stop, now, please.

"Wait?"

"What is it?" His tone is of an extremely busy, important adult being waylaid by a needy, curious child they feel is faw below them. Your voice wavers - you hate it when he speaks to you that way, as if you were stupid, or slow. 

"Do you still love me?" You force yourself to watch him, but there's no reaction in his face. He's still as stone. Still like he has no opinion. 

Still extreme as he says in that tone of annoyance, "Of course, Mandy." And then he's gone.

***

More author's notes: So I like Mandy. So sue me. 

No, not really. 


End file.
